


Ein Wiener in Berlin

by kristallisatie



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-21
Updated: 2015-08-21
Packaged: 2018-04-16 12:32:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4625490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kristallisatie/pseuds/kristallisatie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An AU between an officer and a doctor in Berlin, 1935.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ein Wiener in Berlin

**23:12, 28th September 1935.**

**Near Sachsenplatz, Berlin**

The man felt that the taste of Eisbock, which was an overwhelming aroma of raisin, banana, clove, and chocolate, had lingered on the tip of his tongue for hours. The aftertaste could be real, or it could be imaginary. All this man knew was that even a barrel of Berliner Weisse with green syrup could not help rinsing down this sickeningly sweet-tasting alcohol in his mouth, since he had done so without much success. His senses remained alerted while his thoughts were numbed. The brief shower only ended a moment ago, and the water drops continued falling from the rusted ceiling above. He could barely open his eyes, but he felt the moisture and lifted up his head with difficulties, eagerly catching the droplets with open mouth. Licking to catch the liquid that trailed down from his mouth, he tasted a strong hint of iron - a mixture of rustic water with blood that blended strangely well with the aftertaste.

It was not an uncommon sight to see a grown man leaning against a closed cafe building, battered up and losing breath, at the corner of a small street leading into the residential zone. It was more than likely that he would get a companion soon, perhaps already vomiting. At the northern end of Reichsstrasse, where local residents could obtain all their needs from some twenty shops in the business district, there was a pub in particular that attracted working class at late nights with its affordable alcohol offerings. Neither depression nor prosperity could change people's drinking habit. The abundance of beer, wine, schnapps, bitters, liqueurs, brandies, whiskeys allowed people of all classes to escape from misery momentarily, towards a paradise they wanted to reach. Some of them lost their ways; every night there were guaranteed one or two wretched souls who collapsed on their way crawling back home, laughing into the sky and swallowing their mucus and phlegm inadvertently.

The man, whose name is Gilbert Beilschmidt, was not wretched by the strictest definition. Nonetheless, he grunted and banged his head against the wall. At first there was no particular reason to it. As the pain became more acute, which helped somewhat in sobering him up, he knew he must get himself out of this damned, dirty, wet alley. His struggle failed. Giddiness prevented him from thinking logically, yet imaginations and memories became more vivid than ever.

In his brain echoed a loud cheer of his name by his colleagues. _Beilschmidt! Beilschmidt! Beilschmidt! Beilschmidt!..._ He felt immensely empowered to have a strong crew backing him up, even though he didn't recall these people giving much of a damn about him before. They were cheering because it seemed entertaining to see someone competing against his new supervisor in a drinking challenge. Hailing from the Bavarian capital just a few days ago, Oberst Theodor Bauer decided to get familiar with his new subordinates by throwing a party at the Zibbe, a counterpart restaurant opposite of the main Spandauer Brewery. Founded by a brewer from Franconia almost a century ago, it was also known as the Bock due to the dark, lightly hopped beer that they produced. It used to be a popular spot where six thousand tablespaces were quickly filled up by Berliners during spring weekends. Still, a beautiful view of the River Spree valley failed to attract and retain customers at the turn of a depressing decade. A decline in clientele meant that the brewers were more than willing to supply their famously smooth Bock with a feast of meat in an attractive price, continuing the spirit of Oktoberfest regardless of discouragement from the Führer's government.

An awe-inspiring mural in the background depicting a beer drinking Bacchus on a goat-drawn chariot had bounded to be Dionysian in nature. With much ecstasy through joyous live music, dancing, alcohol, and even some illegal drugs, most men were prone to make decisions that they regretted later. Gilbert knew by heart that he should head home early for the night because that was his obligation. This thought still lingered clearly in his mind as he caught more rusty droplets with blood to quench his unbearable thirst. But then he was in the middle of a loud chant - his colleagues chanting his surname with incredible enthusiasm, encouraging him to accept a drinking challenge against the supervisor. Amidst immense cheering and support his innate pride grew, and he thought this could be won. He did not know that in the Maßkrüge were litres of Eisbock, which was no different from drinking bottles of red wine. Watching the brawny man in his front gulping down the strong beer like swallowing water, Gilbert panicked and almost choked himself. His expanded stomach gave him unpleasant hiccups. Hunching forward with his elbows on the table, he tried to maintain a smug smile while wiping his mouth. Grudgingly, he had to concede defeat after a few sips into the second mug.  Of course, the crowd cheered for their Oberst and complimented his alcohol tolerance, leaving the defeated man taking care of himself.  After a good-humoured laugh, the blond Bavarian supervisor got up and gave Gilbert a firm pat on the shoulder and a smile of approval, noting how he had not expected Northerners to attempt this far. Then he fixed his shirt collar and told his everyone that he must leave now because of family obligations, and with a change of tone, reminded his subordinates that he would rather not see medical claims on his desk because of the festivities. With a warm smile, he took his coat and left the restaurant.

The crowd, about twenty to thirty people, was now without a central figure. They went silent for a moment until someone, whom Gilbert could not recall exactly, suggested to have an after-party at the cheap pub in Neu-Westend after finishing up the free food and drinks here in the restaurant. Gilbert had not felt the buzz yet, and he was about to use the reason his supervisor just cited - _family obligations_ \- to get out of the after-party. _But it's only ten minutes of walk from here! And alcohol that Berliners drink!_  The young officers, who were mass recruited lately, never felt they had enough alcohol in their lives. And old colleagues, who seldom associated themselves with him suddenly sounded and acted like his best friends. Their voices were so vibrant, so persuasive, so compelling that he felt it's only appropriate to lead them and set an example. Upon clearing foods from their plates, they set going, along Spandauer Damm and through the small, undeveloped trails to the less affluent northwest side of the Reichsstraße. On the way, the alcohol finally hit him. He knew he should stop, but his body felt too warm and cozy to resist behind friends with all the cheerful comrades behind him. At the pub, they mingled closely, conversations getting louder and more heated, as if something was discussed in utmost importance. The young ones seemed to have founded their natural habitat, and they resumed all the elaborate codes of drinking back in school, challenging one another in halves or in wholes. And Gilbert have lost his pool match the third time in a row and had to chug glasses of beer as his “punishment”. With his lucidity dissolved into incoherence, he had reached a stage where he was addicted to the substance, and he kept on asking for more refills.

All bar fights began when someone bumped into other men without apologies or muttered unpleasant things that caused an uproar. This time was not an exception. To Gilbert's vague yet vivid memory, only a few of his colleagues left after a few rounds of punishment, and some nonchalant exchanges between the remaining and other customers developed into a hostile, senseless fight. He was too far away from the bar table to hear what was said, and no one was conscious of what spit out of their mouth. All he remembered was a shout “You damned Jewish pig!”  and chaos erupted. From there two sides formed, pushing and pulling each other with punches in the face. Soon enough they needed more spaces for their fists. Rather than settling down outside, they pushed the fight further inward, towards the pool tables where Gilbert was. He shouted at his colleagues in hope that they would help to stop the aggression, but the weak shout diminished in the cacophonous background noise of shattering glasses and bawling grown men. Instinct drove him to defend himself with a pool stick. He counterattacked furiously but to no prevail - he was outnumbered and ganged up on. His jacket offered him some protection, just not inadequate when he was struck repeatedly with beer and wine bottles. The regular ones broke upon hitting his head, the broken bottles with sharp edges pierced into the flesh of his torso. He wailed and struggled back. He threw billiard balls frantically for a chance for retreat, and he managed to retaliate with a few punches in the stomach and staggered his way out of the pub. It's possible that his colleagues might still be stuck in the fight, though he was not in a position to care about other's safety anymore. He thought of walking home, _and he needed to walk down south, making a left at..._ Too late, he succumbed to his injuries at the corner of the small street.

Only a few shops away from the pub and Gilbert could still hear clearly. _Goddamned Jewish pigs._

Gilbert used the last bit of his strength to press his jacket tightly with his arm against the bleeding deep wounds on the torso. He had gone through enough first-aid training to understand that he could not walk back home probably without his wounds stopped bleeding first. But what was there to do, what was the merit of sitting on a slimy cobblestone road, still wet from brief rain shower as well as drunkards' piss? Nothing, he thought as he swallowed down the rusty raindrops, and he could only hope that he mustered enough strength soon to resume his journey back home.

On the main street, everything else proceeded normally. Automobiles drove down the road and water splashed from under the wheels. Passer-by walked on the pavement, paying little attention to what was on the side. He dropped his head since he nearly depleted his energy. The wound was not getting better, and at the moment he only wanted to sleep. As he started to lose his consciousness, he heard some footsteps getting louder and clearer. Someone was approaching him.

“Sir, would you like me to take you to the hospital?” A gentle male voice spoke to him. It got even closer as he spoke. “I can get you a taxi to the emergency room.”

His supervisor's warning resounded in his brain. He could not risk his job in a time like this.

“No, absolutely not - no hospital! That cannot happen!” Gilbert winced and replied weakly.

He had no idea what exactly happened afterward. His skull felt heavy; his arm was dragged forcibly and was draped on someone's shoulder; they barely wobbled before coming to a halt, and was lifted up to a coach. His consciousness faded away completely as the automobile drove away from the eventful Reichsstrasse.

* * *

Blinding morning light invaded through the half-curtained window, but its glare was not the only cause of Gilbert waking up and squinting his eyes painfully at his surroundings. He had a throbbing headache and groaned, his head shaking violently in an attempt to make him feel better. He had some dry hard coughs, but each cough only made his throat burn worse due to dehydration. Swallowing saliva could only help so little. Nausea overwhelmed him and he had a strong urge to vomit. He could see better as his eyes got used to the light. Looking down he saw himself covered in a blanket with his arm wrapped in bandages. he used another arm to get himself up and felt a terrible pain in his torso - several wounds were stitched up.

Right behind him were four large leadlight windows in simple geometric designs, casting brilliance over a beautifully crafted bronze statue of an alluring half-naked woman with a golden lyre. On his right was a large black-white framed illustration depicting two women and a flowery landscape in Jugendstil style. In the opposite side of the modern white living room were a few more oak dining chairs and table, a small vase of white lilies in the middle, and facing the wall was a Bechstein upright piano in an beautifully decorated rosewood case with inlaid marquetry and candle sconces, probably dated back to the Monarchy era. Next to the piano was a door that reminded him of new Vienna. There was a small folding table glass on his left, with a silver tray of scissors, needles, threads, antiseptic alcohol, and an overwhelming amount of bloody cloth. The further left was a white armchair with a metallic surface where he could see his blood-tainted white shirt and trousers being folded neatly and placed there.

The stranger with gentle voice must have picked him up last night and treated him in his apartment. The more he tried to recollect what happened last night, the stronger the pulsating pain got. Wanting to get up from the sofa, he slid his back up the wooden armrest and clumsily swung his legs outside, which hit the glass side table. The tray and the utensils fell off onto the wool carpet.

Within seconds, he heard a door creak open, and someone appeared from the far left, taking a glance at him before he spoke. “Ah, you are awake - I should have reminded myself to keep the curtains closed last night. It used to not matter, but not it does. I hope you are feeling better. It might be the best for you not to move around for now. Please take good care of yourself. And yes- Good morning. I suppose you would like some apple juice?”

“Umm- yes, of course.” Gilbert startled, not knowing what to say at the moment.

“It must have been a lively evening last night for you, sir-” the man must have entered the kitchen since he returned with a tray of two tall glasses and a jar full of apple juice, walking towards the patient. He looked as if he just woke up because his dark brown hair was not combed back uniformly, but rather having some strands that stood up defiantly. Underneath his oval silver framed glasses was a pair of deep blue eyes that complimented his pale features. If only if he was not frowning- Gilbert decided to lay back down and observed the man approaching him.

“-As you might have noticed already, twenty-one stitches in total for your two deep wounds around your waist,” The man continued, placing the tray on the side table, then kneeling down to clean up the fallen items on the floor, putting them back into the silver tray and took it aside. “Fortunately your wounds were clean cuts; otherwise it would be more painful to douse your inside with antiseptics. I numbed your wound last night to perform the stitching, and you did not show any discomfort during the procedure. The outside was cleaned. There are also cuts on your arm, but those are minor. I applied ointment and wrapped bandages around them. No fracture of bones.”

He got up and started pouring apple juice into the glasses. Gilbert's eyes fixed on the golden liquid as if he paid no attention to the man's explanation. “It does appear that you have sustained a head injury - struck by a hard object. Luckily it is not the part where one usually sleeps on. It was bleeding when you came in, and there are still visible bruises.  I did clean the injury and apply ointment. But you seem to be conscious, and your speech is quite clear. I doubt it is anything severe that affects your brain. Here is your juice. Can you remember anything about last night?”

“Thank you. It hurts when I try to think with it.”  Gilbert took the drink with a nod. It felt as if he had not drunk any liquid for two days in a desert. He tilted the glass and gulped down the juice in one sitting.

“Slowly, slowly!” The man advised as he stood nearby and took a sip from his apple juice. His words sounded concerned, yet they were rhythmic and had a soft, relaxed timbre. It was also slightly nasal, with an emphasis on vowels and the rolling R's. Not a typical Berliner, Gilbert noted to himself and placed the empty glass on the tray.

“Hurts while trying to think with your head... that could be problematic.” He let out a chuckle while pouring more juice into Gilbert's glass. “I forgot to say - Dr. Edelsheim. I am a physician. I was on my way home after a night visit when I saw you at the corner of Sachsenplatz. You didn't want me to send you to the hospital, so I took you home instead. I hope you don't mind.”

“Do you happen to be a private practitioner?”

“No? I work for the hospital. Krankenhaus Westend.”

Gilbert felt relieved to hear that it was an off-duty physician who performed a Samaritan act for him. If he were to stay at the unsanitary street and seek medical assistance the morning after, an infection might have taken place and he would inevitably need sick leaves. This service had also saved him from asking for medical claims, which might leave his new supervisor an unnecessarily negative impression on his self-control, and even, his work performance. He could simply act on Monday that he did injury himself, but very minor and controlled.

“I see. I hope it is not too late to express my gratitude for the help you have offered.” He spoke politely, taking his second glass of juice and drank slowly this time.  His head still ached awfully and he ended up wincing throughout the talk, but his voice was less coarse due to proper hydration. “My name is Gilbert Beilschmidt, and I live couple blocks from you workplace. If there is anything I can help with in the future, don't hesitate to ask me.”

“Will you? That is great to hear.” Dr. Edelsheim looked pleased; his lips curved up subtly. “I do have something that I would like you to help me with, and I strongly believe it is within your ability to do so.”

“Yeah? Tell me and I'll get it done.”

The doctor walked up to the piano, torn off a piece of paper from a notebook, and scribbled some words on it with a pen. Then he folded the paper and passed it to the patient. Gilbert took a look and it wrote:

_Forge the birth and marriage certificates for the following:_

_Johann Adler_

_Amalia Adler, née Edelstein_

_Erase all records of the Edelstein's_

The cordial smile vanished quickly from his expression. Again, Goddamned _Jewish pigs_ \- but that might not be an accurate description of this man. They found themselves staring at each other sternly until Gilbert broke the dead silence.

“Where is your Aryan certificate?” He interrogated.

“I knew you would ask,” Dr. Edelsheim went to the coat rack and retrieved his wallet. He took out a red identification book, letting Gilbert review the information as long as he pleased. “My Ahnenpass, albeit a short one, for practical reasons.”

He flipped through the record and looked through paternal lineage. _Family name Edelsheim, first name Roderich, born on 26.10.1903 in Vienna..._ Both his father and mother were born and married in Vienna. The names of the paternal ancestors were as Aryan as the renowned Edelsheim family descended from Baden; a junior branch settled in Vienna five generations ago. And for the maternal lineage - those grandparents settled in Vienna after their marriage in Berlin. He could tell that the lineage of maternal grandfather seemed suspicious, but he passed on since Adler could be a legitimate Aryan family name. As for the maternal side with an obvious Jewish name - “Edelstein” was replaced by “Engel”. Similarly, her ancestors were all changed to Aryan first- and surnames. This was completely different from the information he was given.  Last time Gilbert heard the law discussed was from a higher up, who mentioned that there was an inter-party dispute regarding the classification of Jews for Mischlinge and the degree of prosecution. If the doctor was truly a Mischling of second degree, he had nothing to worry about- except the Adler's...

“This is a forge,” he spoke grimly.

“It would not make sense if it isn't. May I?” The doctor extended his hand over and took his precious identification before the other could do anything to it. “There is a limitation on what forgers can do. Sir, do you happen to know anything about the law announced recently?”

“I know as much as you know about it,” Gilbert replied alertly.

“Brilliant. You must then understand why an extra layer of protection will become necessary, sooner or later.” Dr. Edelsheim casually took a seat along the armrest of the white armchair, and with downcast eyes and clasped hands he continued, “Medicine is a government regulated profession. Private panel practices must be approved by the government, and licenses can be invoked anytime. It is, indeed, a precarious position to hold onto, but I hold dear to my vocation, just like how you might hold dear to yours. Yet it does not matter even if a man repeatedly proves his Aryan-ness, his innate adherence to Christianity, his unquestioned patriotism, and his disdain towards an obsolete, hypocritical, and barbaric faith... What matters, in the end, is whether a man is tainted with dirty, unwanted blood!”

The doctor, noticing how agitated he had become again, paused and calmed himself down, He normally did not talk like this. Perhaps the ever-increasing workload with a lack of staff had driven him insane. “My love and allegiance to this country is as profound as the Führer's. I wish to remain here, in my position, to continue serving the Fatherland's interest, even if its interest might become my downfall. I have full faith that you will abide by your promise, especially since you fully capable of doing so. Confidentiality is conditional, is it not, Hauptmann Beilschmidt _from the Abwehr_?”

Gilbert could only think of more and more curse words to describe this situation. He clenched and ground his teeth, highly dissatisfied at the turn of events. The help was meant to be a polite gesture; his offering was not entirely genuine - at least not for troublesome tasks outside his hours. He saw the doctor taking out another document - a blue card - from his wallet and glanced through the details.

“Hey- my ID!” Gilbert shouted.

“It was somewhat soaked in your coat so I took it out. _Truppenausweis No.356 for Gilbert Beilschmidt, born on 18 January 1905 in Berlin_ \- nice birthday- _Entering into office on 8 April 1923_ \- that's quite early -  _Height 178, weight 75kg..._ ” The doctor simply handed him back his military ID, and Gilbert grudgingly took it back.

He thought he was in trouble enough, and this became even more problematic since the doctor now knew his position in the enlarging Nazi army. He would not be surprised anymore if he found himself subjected to disciplinary action in the near future due to his apparent carelessness last night and this morning. Perhaps it's only lucky for Gilbert that it was a Saturday night when he got into trouble.

“Fine, I got it. I need to erase or fabricate your ancestry records in Berlin, that's all? Keeping your records clean.”

“Yes, that is all, for our mutual benefits.”

“Good. Then I am leaving,” He grunted, trying to get up and get going. Doctor Edelsheim smiled, moving the side table over and handing him his tainted white shirt and trousers. With the injuries and the pulsating headache, Gilbert had to take twice as much time getting dressed in a clumsy manner.

“I will get you your jacket and your shoes. There should be a visit card inside the pocket, with my address printed. Please come by ten days later for a follow-up check on your stitches. I doubt you would like them on your skin for too long.”

This also meant the doctor was expecting a progress report of some kind, and Gilbert better started gathering information and material to make a convincing church and civil original record that could convince even experts in the Nazi party.  With the help from the doctor fixing the collar and the jacket, he met his eyes and gave a perfunctory confirmation, then hurriedly left from the door which the doctor opened for him.

“Remember- do not scratch your skin, no matter how irritated it gets.” The doctor advised as he followed the officer with his eyes.

Gilbert turned back briefly. “Yeah. I know.”

And the two men continued their prospective lives as if nothing had happened, in a regular Sunday morning in late September, in the peaceful and affluent residential district of Westend, in the ever-changing metropolitan city of Berlin. 


End file.
